Pale Horse
by Skuns
Summary: Death is not the end.


Philosophical, terrible, and very sad because I like sad stories.

Pale Horse

"I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him." -Revelation 6:7-8

...

Three years. Three years to the day since she left him. Three years of utter hell. Three of the worst years of his life.

He wouldn't tell anyone, though. He didn't have to. The few surviving Shepherds he still fought alongside knew him all too well by this point. They knew that the more he smiled, the more he was hurting. They would try to talk to him, to let him know that he wasn't alone, that they were in this together and as long as they held out hope...well, not even the Fell Dragon could take that away from them. He wasn't so sure. In fact, he believed the exact opposite. They lost hope the day they lost her. Every day after that saw a new disaster. A village burned. A comrade dead. The loss of the Halidom. Every day brought them closer to the end of the world. And even though the last of his friends tried to comfort him, they knew their words were falling on deaf ears. Because they also knew that his world ended a long time ago.

Three years.

The foot soldier didn't even see it coming. With one swift kick, he was sent sprawling to the ground a good fifteen feet away, every rib broken and a horseshoe shaped hole in his chest. He wouldn't be recovering from that. Reaching around to pat the horses neck, Henry smiled devilishly. Goddamn, he loved this horse.

"That's right, girl, kill 'em dead."

She snorted impatiently. She was a wild one, that was for sure. Ever since his promotion from Dark Mage to Dark Knight, he never went anywhere without her. The grey mare got him out of more than one tight spot and seemed to enjoy battle just as much as he did. Nothing ever frightened her and all he needed to do to spur her forward was to cackle maniacally, the promise of the thrill of bloodshed, and off they went, pale rider on the pale horse.

A bandaid. That's what his friends would call her; his beautiful demon horse. An excuse to not confront his emotional turmoil and blah, blah, blah. He grew tired of hearing it, so he stopped listening.

What they didn't get, for whatever stupid reason or another, was that this war was simple for them. Wake up. Slaughter risen and enemy alike. Plan to kill Grima. Go to sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. They still had a cause, a reason to fight on and that reason took the form of their young children. He didn't have a child. She took his son from him in the dead of night, all those years ago. And the vengeance they swore to uphold, every time they lost their spouse? They lost their loved ones to death. He lost his to the Devil. Or more like, his love became the Devil. It was ironic in way. He grew up, totally devoted to the very magic that would bring around the end of times, only to have the one good, shining light in his life suddenly become it's monster. It kept him awake at night. Gods, did it keep him up at night.

Commanding the mare to turn on the spot, he swung his sword with dizzying speed, slicing clean through the flesh and bone of an enemy soldiers neck, decapitating the poor bastard in one fell swoop. He laughed gleefully, relishing in the sight of such gore. Man, did he love gore. About as much as he loved his mare. Almost as much as he still loved her...

And there it was. That sinking feeling he felt in the depths of his stomach every time he thought of her. It hurt. It hurt like hell. He could feel his innards shriveling up and dying from the trauma every single time. Every. Single. Time.

Then he would make haste to the stables, not saying a word when they would ask where he was going, never really needing his answer because they already knew. He wife was gone. His child was gone. He was losing friends left and right and the ones who still lived wanted his beloved Robin dead. His cause was no more. All he had was that death-colored warhorse.

Nudging her sides with his heels, Henry grinned as her body lurched forward, gathering speed to gallop further into the fray. All around them, ally and adversary clashed with a fury he knew all too well. His cause to fight against evil may have died out but he still fought. Still fought for the Shepherds because it was all he knew. He tried to rationalize it once. His unwillingness to abandon the Shepherds, that is. All he could come up with was that it would be what she wanted. She would tell him to stick by them, protect them. Because they needed him more than she did...

If she needed him, she wouldn't have left.

Fury. Something he felt far too often.

It wasn't fair.

But whoever said life was fair?

Sighing, he aimlessly rides through the carnage, catching a glimpse here and there of dead allies. Why were they fighting again? To stop the apocalypse? How exactly did they expect to do that when their numbers continued to dwindle down, ever closer to zero? Keep fighting to the last man standing? What a joke. They hadn't made a difference to the war in years. They only fought now for the sake of survival and quite frankly, he was sick of it.

But in the end, it didn't matter. It never mattered.

Without warning, the mare rears up on to her hind legs, shaking him from his silent reverie and startling him enough so that he falls to the ground. She whinnies and backs up, nearly trampling him in the process, as an earthbound wyvern approaches, shrieking to the high heavens and spewing flames in her direction. Eyes wide open, he scrambles to the side, away from her kicking hooves and whistles for her to return to him. For the first time, she does not obey. With a flick of her ashen tail, she quickly circles around and runs off, leaving him to fend for himself. Just like the old days.

He can't help the smile that plays on his face. Somehow, it always ended like this. Him on his own. Neglected by mother and father. His wolf, dead at his feet, going where he could not follow. Abandoned by the one woman who said she loved him. And now, there goes his ride. What was it about him that made people want to leave?

The wyverns upon him. A jet of fire explodes from it's fanged mouth, lighting the grass as it trails after him, right in his wake. If he didn't move faster then he would go up in flames as well. And fire was painful. He didn't like pain. Reaching for the tome hidden at his back, he swirls about as he flips open the pages, the golden circles of runic scripture appearing around him as he lets loose his most fearsome arcane magic. The faint howl of laughter that accompanies the blast is terrifying and sends a chill down his spine. The laughter of demons. Goetia.

The blast hits it's mark, tearing the beast apart at the limbs, leaving behind it's shredded remains to bloody up the soil underneath. Poor guy. Being forced to fight a humans battle, only to have to die a pointless death. And all because it was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Suddenly, he feels a tearing in his own body. The force of the impact causes him to shudder forward, but is not enough to bring him to his knees. Looking down, he see a spearhead protruding from his chest, blood dripping from the point and running down his armor. It's hard to breathe. Gulping for air, his vision begins to swim as the spearhead is suddenly being pulled back through and out of his body. He's unable to look around at his attacker but he reminds himself that it doesn't matter anyways.

His strength finally leaves him to crumple to the ground. As he lies in a heap, coughing up blood, hoping for his death to be quick, the sounds of battle fade away. He slowly opens his eyes to get one final look at the sky. It's blue. A beautiful blue. Just like her eyes. But before he can die, a shadow falls over him, blocking his perfect, blue sky.

It's the mare, come for her master.

She gently nudges his cheek with her nose, as if to say, "I'm sorry I left you."

He rubs her nose with his cheek, as if to reply, "It's okay, I still love you."

Because he always had. Since the day they met, all those years ago. And even though she left him all alone, he understood that it wasn't because she wanted to. That even though she was consumed by darkness, deep down was the girl that he fell in love with, that still loved him back.

Funny, they always complained that his grey mare was a crutch, something he used to escape from his troubles. Not once did they ever think to ask her name.

With Robin watching over him, he closes his eyes and allows the image of the pale horse to guide him to peace. To the days with her, when they traveled the world, surrounded by all of their friends, happier than he had ever been. To the summer nights that they'd spent in their tent, holding each other despite the heat, sharing passionate kisses between giggles and moans. To the very day that Morgan was born, a perfect, fussy bundle that had his mothers eyes and his fathers messy hair. The halcyon days of his youth. That's where she was taking him. To where he had been happy for real, once upon a time.


End file.
